Broken
by OrangeShipper
Summary: "You know, this is not how I expected to return to Downton." 1917. Matthew struggles to come to terms with his recuperation at Downton Abbey. And how will Mary react to his changed circumstances? Final chapter!: Are the wounds too deep?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _So typically, now I'm back at work the muse has returned. Yay (I think)! _

_This came to me this morning, inspired a little by the very exciting pictures emerging of filming Series 2! _

_Edit to add: I was very remiss posting this last night as I was so tired, and forgot: of course I need to hugely thank Silverduck for her ever helpful comments and reassurances, and also Silvestria for helping me bounce Mary's reactions off! Thank you!_

_Hope you enjoy. _

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><p><strong><span>Broken<span>**

Mary stepped through the imposing doors and onto the spacious, gravelled driveway in front of the house. Since her parent's home had been made into a convalescent hospital nearly a year ago, activity in this previously quiet area had increased significantly. There were always people coming to and fro, patients, visitors and nurses in and out, and, now that summer was approaching, the many recuperating soldiers found it pleasant to pass their time out in the sun. Benches and tables were now scattered just in front of the house, always occupied.

She took a deep breath of the fresh, early evening air, casting her eyes around. If she was honest, she hated being around them. It unnerved her. Their cheerful smiles and laughing chatter belied their missing limbs and their blinded eyes. It made her shudder. How could they be so cheery, so light-hearted, when they had suffered so much? She said cheery – and for the most part, they were – but they were also haunted, and more often than not the harsh cries and screams of remembrance would trouble her sleep.

Her eyes at last fell upon whom she sought. The evening sun caught his golden hair, shorter now at the back than it had been, and she instantly recognised the broad set of his shoulders underneath his khaki uniform. She bit her lip as she walked towards him.

A week ago, he had arrived. He had barely spoken since. No-one had known he was coming; he had not had the chance to write and they were not generally informed of names until the newcomers had arrived. . A fresh 'batch' of wounded but recovering men were being trailed in, by stretcher and wheelchair. She had nearly fainted when she had seen him; she had just been on her way out, had not meant to cross the now familiar, efficient procedure of signing them in. She had cast her eye down the line as she routinely did, hoping and praying that he would not be among them. Her eyes had scanned to the end, a sigh of relief upon her lips, when the realisation hit her and she froze. Hardly breathing, she dragged her eyes back, forcing herself to really look, and was suddenly faced with his cold, blue eyes piercing into hers. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her gasp. His mouth was set into a hard grimace and he quickly looked away, staring darkly into the space in front of him. And then he disappeared, taken into the next room to be processed (she hated the word; it made them seem like cattle).

How she wanted to go to him; but she remained frozen in place for an age. In distress she ran outside, not even thinking to inform her family. Her mind was haunted by the look in his eyes, and she could not wholly say whether or not he was just some phantom in another man's face. As she strode aimlessly through the village, her mind swirled, desperately seeking and grasping at reassurances. His face was just as she remembered; if a little leaner, and sterner, with a thin red gash seared across his cheek. She had been able to gather as much that his limbs were all there still, thank the Lord. He had not been shaking and screaming as some had, and the way his gaze had bored into her had convinced her that he had not lost his sight.

But her Matthew was in a wheelchair. She later learned that his injuries were 'merely' that his lower legs had been horribly crushed somehow, forcing him to remain wheelchair-bound while they recovered. Thankfully at least, they were not beyond recovery at all, unlike so many others. She had also overheard nurses speaking of the gashes latticed across his entire body, the very idea making her heart ache for him. Precisely how it had happened was unknown; he had not spoken of it. Her proud, independent, stubborn Matthew. How he hated it.

Now, as she approached him, trepidation filled her breast. She had not yet spoken to him, she had been too afraid to. However, she had heard that when others had tried, he had only remained despondent, listless, silent, helpless. Cautiously, she came to the other side of the small table by his side, and sat down, watching him carefully. He knew she was there. Eventually, his head turned a fraction, enough to allow his gaze to slide sideways to meet hers. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, silently, before she could find any words.

"I hope you don't mind if I join you for a little while?" Her voice sounded quiet and small in the thick evening air. It was not at all as though they had not exchanged a word for nearly three years.

"It would appear that I have little choice." His eyes flickered down to the wheels of his chair; his body was too weak and sore still for him to be able to move it much under his own power. She understood. She pressed her lips together to prevent them from trembling, the precious sound of his voice affecting her more deeply than she had anticipated after all this time. For a moment she sat just looking at him, taking him in, allowing her eyes to almost reverently trace every feature as her brows furrowed in heartfelt concern.

But he only saw pity there. "Do not look at me like that, Mary," he sighed, his gaze lowering to his currently useless legs. "I don't want or need your pity. I certainly don't deserve it." He paused, lightly clutching at the arm of his wheelchair. A sudden harsh, bitter laugh left his lips, causing Mary's eyes to widen. "Really, I am lucky! Things couldn't be better! I'm in England, I'm – here – and all I have to complain of is a short spell in a wheelchair. Look at them, Mary, and be glad for me." His words cut sharply through the air, simmering bitterness pooling in him at the whole blasted thing. The war, his legs, the chair, this place... Her. Mary had lowered her eyes as he spoke, contemplating his words. He was right – a brief glance around her at recuperating soldiers with far more lasting injuries confirmed the fact.

"Matthew, I do not pity you!" She insisted, shaking her head at him. "I – I am just..." she struggled to find the words. He raised his eyes back to hers, one eyebrow rising gently as he waited. "I suppose I'm just trying to convince myself that you are really here. I... I have been so worried, Matthew." Now was not the time for her stubbornness and silence. He was here, and she was not going to be a fool again.

He blinked at her unspoken admission. That she had thought about him. That she had worried about him. That she had not forgotten him, as he had not forgotten her. The ghost of a smile fell on his lips, some silent understanding passing between them, before his eyes dropped once more.

They fell into an uneasy silence. What could she possibly say to him? How could she understand what he had been through? Though the contemplation of it terrified her, she felt an urgent desire to know. She was glad that his uniform and the bandages around his legs hid his torn and bloodied flesh from her eyes, but she was so very aware of it all.

"What happened?" She eventually whispered. She held her breath as she saw him stiffen, his fingers gripping slightly tighter on the arm. He remained unmoving, staring ahead, only a twitch in his nostrils as he drew a deep, shuddering breath. In his mind he had relived the moment over and over, the blinding flash, the searing pain, the dull agony as he had waited. A brief simmer of frustration bubbled through him; what business of hers was it, of anyone's! Yet, somehow, he knew that she needed to understand, and a strange calm spread through him as he realised that he wanted her to.

"Shell," he eventually shrugged, his voice low and quiet. His eyes remained fixed on the ground slightly in front of him. Mary held her breath, understanding the significance of his revelation. "I was... writing to Mother in the dugout. The shelling had been going on for days; I suppose it was only a matter of time really." His voice grew quieter as he continued, trembling a little. His eyes narrowed. "I can't really remember. It all came crashing in at once." He took a shaking breath, twitching visibly as he flinched at the memory. Mary watched him entranced, unshed tears filling her eyes. "I imagine it hit just outside, I... really don't know, only that if it had been much closer I would be dead for sure. I can't remember. Just... the walls and the door and the ceiling shattering into pieces and flying against me, it was deafening, blinding –" his breath had quickened to shallow gasps and Mary grasped his arm lightly, her eyes tracing the obviously recent gash on his cheek, wondering about the multitude beneath his uniform. "Then," he closed his eyes and expelled a gentle sigh, "there was only black, and quiet, and pain, for so long." He swallowed, his eyes slowly blinking open. "I... think that half the roof had landed on my legs. Bloody hurt. And I was bloody lucky they found me so quickly."

Shaking slightly, he turned his face to Mary, causing her to gasp at the pained look in his eyes. She saw in them complete honesty, and complete trust. All at once her heart swelled unbearably with the love that she had not allowed herself to forget, and it pounded through her veins. It suddenly hit her with enormous force just how easily she could have lost him, how lucky she was that he was sitting beside her now, able to tell her of it.

"Oh Matthew," she breathed. His lips twitched, not quite able to smile, but recognising now that it was not pity in her eyes but sorrow. He felt an odd calm, an odd relief at having told her. Feelings stirred in him that he had not allowed himself to feel in a long time, and he knew without doubt that there was not another soul here he would have spoken to of it.

"Well," he said quietly. "There you have it. And here I am."

"Might... Might I tell your mother?" Mary asked tentatively. "She has been terribly worried about you. We all have." She knew that Cousin Isobel had sat with Matthew for many hours in the past week, troubled by his silence. She felt an almost perverse pleasure in the flutter of her heart at the fact that it was she whom he had chosen to open up to.

"If you like," he muttered.

"Thank you. It will give her peace, I think. It's... oh Matthew, this will sound dreadful I know, but it's so hard simply not knowing." His eyes flashed to her sharply. "No, I know what you think – I know that it is not hard for us here, it is nothing compared to what you have done, but... I think that the unknown can be a lot more troubling than the simple known truth."

He nodded slowly, returning his gaze to the ground. He could understand that, he supposed. The overriding, terrible fear that gripped his heart before combat seemed to dissipate once he was in the thick of it; there was no time to think or be afraid. He simply dealt with it. Though the cold reality of battle was more dreadful than anything he knew, it was still somehow easier to deal with than the seizing fear beforehand. And the silence before the shelling; the silence when you knew it was coming, was unbearable. He supposed it was like that, in some perverse way.

"Yes," he said simply.

Mary's lips twitched slightly. He seemed so despondent, so resigned, and it made her heart ache. She felt almost a little guilty at her pleasure that he was back, there, beside her. It all seemed so long ago, that they had parted, with such regret and resentment between them. And now he was back… She had imagined him being back so many times. Had imagined that it was all forgotten. But it was not. And _he_ still hung, dreadfully, between them. Pamuk – the very thought of him made her shudder now. Should she tell him still, now? She almost wished he were some wonderful phantom, not really here, not forcing her to think of it again. Could she tell him? She sighed, shaking her head slightly. He was here… That was all that seemed important, for this precious moment. He was alive, and he was here. All else could wait for another time.

Tentatively, she slid her hand down his arm and touched his hand where it lay on the arm of his wheelchair. Both stared at the contact, transfixed, while her fingertips lightly traced all over his hand and fingers. Her almost touch made him shiver. Mary slowly spread out her hand, until her palm was lying flat against the back of his hand, then curled her fingers round to gently clasp it. Matthew's eyes drifted shut, his breathing suddenly shallow as he savoured the sensation. His hand was smoother than she had expected; three years of war should have made it callous and rough; and it was, scabbed and scarred, but not so much that she could not feel the delicate softness of his palm under her fingers. She blinked, gazing at it. To her, it suddenly seemed the most wondrous thing. What had it done? Had this hand, his hand, been the cause of anyone's death? She supposed it must have been. It would be stupidly naive to imagine that he had not killed; but the thought of her dear, sweet Matthew doing such a thing made her tremble. That he should even be in a situation where it was necessary, where the action was forced upon him, was unbearable to think of. Unconsciously, her thumb rubbed across his fingers and her heart went out to him. She gave a gentle gasp as she felt a light squeeze from him.

Her eyes flicked up to his face. He was staring, out across the grounds, off into the distance, all the way to France. She could see his face twitch and flex as he lightly clenched his jaw. She wondered if he could sense, or whether he cared, that she was quite openly staring at him, but she supposed that if he minded he would let her know. His fingers still lightly clasped her hand, tightening occasionally as something passed through his mind. For the moment, she was utterly content to simply sit with him like this, treasuring his presence and carving in her mind every inch of his handsome face. He would talk when he was ready.

Eventually, he was.

"You know, this is not how I expected to return to Downton." His words had a resentful, bitter edge. The thought had clearly been playing on his mind for some time.

"Oh?" It was hardly how Mary had expected him to either; but then, every possible scenario had played through her mind so many times in the past that she hardly knew which of them she actually expected.

"No. Well. What I had expected, I don't know, but I suppose that I would have desired to return with at least a shred of dignity and self-respect still. Not like this." He looked disgustedly down at himself and his wheelchair.

"Matthew! You say that as if you had none." Mary found herself disturbed and worried by his opinion of himself. His eyes slid sideways to hers, burning coldly.

"Look at me, Mary. What dignity do I have?"

"You have dignity in abundance, Matthew! You - of course you do!" Her eyebrows rose as she spoke, unable to believe his attitude. How could he consider himself to have none!

"Mary." Unconsciously he clutched her hand a little more tightly. "When you are unable to move your own body without assistance or pain, when you are helpless to do anything for yourself – and shall be so for months, possibly – then you tell me whether you feel you have any dignity left."

"Matthew –" She was interrupted by him, his voice ringing harshly in bitterness and resentment.

"It is not even as though I suffered injury in some noble, heroic fashion whilst doing my duty! It was a blasted accident!" He didn't even know why this bothered him so much. He certainly never would consider himself a hero, or even particularly noble. It just seemed that it would somehow give his injury more worth, rather than it having been a pointless accident. "And the worst of it is," he continued, growing increasingly agitated, "that now I feel guilty. Guilty! That I'm sitting here, in safety and sunshine, feeling sorry for myself while all the rest are still out there doing what I should be doing." His lip curled into a sneer of disgust at himself.

"Matthew!" Her heart broke for him, but he was being ridiculous! "How can you say that! I – I know you must feel helpless here, but – for goodness sake, listen to yourself!" Matthew turned and glared uncomfortably at her hard words. "Damn you for being so stupidly noble – you have fought for three years, Matthew, you have given everything to it, I am sure. You've been injured –" her voice shook slightly, "and yes, it was an accident – well I care not how it happened, it makes not a jot of difference! The fact is that it happened, you are here – you cannot change that. Let others take up the fight for a while. Appreciate the fact that you are alive, that you have been granted a respite – that you are here. You must suffer for a time, yes, but thank God that you have your legs still, and thank God that you have your life still." She unconsciously gripped his hand ever tighter as she became more worked up, panting slightly in shock at herself after her outburst.

Matthew frowned, blinking slowly, at the ground. He trembled slightly all over, stunned by her harsh speech.

A twinge of regret flashed through Mary at how unthinking she had been. "Matthew, I –"

"No." His voice rang with clear resolve. "No, Mary, you're right." He met her eyes, his lips pressing into a thin smile. "Thank you, I… I think I needed to hear that." Of course she was right. Now he felt a little less guilty and a little more foolish. "You must think me so selfish and stupid, to be feeling sorry for myself when I've really so little to complain about compared to others… Thank you, Mary."

Mary breathed a soft sigh of relief, smiling gently as, for the first time, his eyes sparkled a little. He did not resent her words; he even seemed to be grateful for them! Her heart burst with fondness, unable still to believe that he was actually sitting in front of her, his hand in hers.

They sank once more into a strange, peaceful silence, having reached some unspoken truce and understanding. The feeling of her hand in his gave Matthew greater comfort than he had felt in three years. The whole situation seemed odd and surreal. His eyes wandered down to his battered legs, his resentment at his situation a little duller than before. Just a little. He wondered what Mary thought of it. Could she love him like this? No – he sighed, shaking his head slightly. He could not think of that now.

His gaze drifted back out into the distance. The silence here was unsettling, and he felt restless, a part of him longing to be back there, doing his duty. Was he a fool to think so? Probably. Then it occurred to him that his restlessness was more due to the fact that he had been sitting in this damnable wheelchair for endless hours. He shifted, wriggling a little, grimacing as the movement rubbed against his scarred body. Glancing sideways, he saw that she was watching him, a concerned frown upon her face. He tried to raise a gentle smile of reassurance, not quite sure whether he had succeeded or not. Taking a deep breath, he settled himself once more, determined to enjoy this unexpected contentment a little while longer, the soft feel of her hand in his. This time, it was not imagined, away in his bunk across the sea, in the dark, under the pounding of shells. She was real, and she was here, and she was holding his hand.

For the first time in over a week, he found the corner of his lips twitching into a small smile.

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><p>AN:_ Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought, reviews always welcome. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Though it's taken me a while, thank you so, so much for your kind reviews on the first chapter of this fic! I certainly wasn't anticipating such a response, and I appreciate it so much. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to bring you another chapter, but here it is!

Thanks to Silverduck for beta-ing! Hope you enjoy :)

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

It was a couple of days since she had spoken to him, held his hand – now, it felt more like a dream. Of course, she had dreamt of him often in her troubled sleep, dreamt that everything was right between them; so it was not entirely beyond belief that she could have fabricated the whole thing in some exhausted stupor. She knew he was _here_, of course; that much was undeniable. But had she really sat with him and talked so freely with him? How had she dared to, after so many years of silence?

Mary had not dared to seek him out again, not with any great intent. A part of her (a large part) wanted to; the simple pleasure of sitting with him, talking with his hand in hers had given her more joy than anything had really, if she were honest, since the start of this detestable war. But she was afraid; afraid that they could not recapture it, wondering if perhaps she would be better just claiming that happiness and allowing it to sustain her rather than hope for anything more. Oh, but she wanted to...

Apparently, due to her success in actually holding some form of sustained conversation with him, it had been decided that Mary was now the family's spokesperson to Matthew; much to her chagrin. Yes, she wanted to talk to him again, but under their own terms, thank you very much! At her father's request, she now sought him out again. It took her several attempts to garner the strength of will to approach him as she felt great discomfort wandering among the soldiers, her own house now seeming more their territory than her own; a fact which bothered her severely.

Tentatively, she stepped into the games room, which once had been her father's precious library. It sickened her a little; to see it so changed now unnerved her, all these strangers with their strange injuries… She was becoming used to it, but still a cold, unsettled feeling crept over her in the midst of them like this. A large pool table filled the centre of the room; tables and chairs strewn with cards and chequer-boards and dice lay scattered around the edges. The air was thick here with the smell of antiseptic and cloying bandages. Eventually she saw him; sitting alone with his head bent in concentration over a book… and that ghastly wheelchair… Instinctively her back straightened and she held herself a little higher, as if to rise above it all, and made her way towards him. She had to ungracefully push past one or two men, flashing them uncomfortable, apologetic smiles as she went, until she reached him.

Of course, he'd been aware of her long before she was standing next to him. She seemed to ever hover on the periphery of his perception; unsure always whether she was real or whether it was the phantom of her haunting his mind… Their encounter the other day had shaken him slightly. In fragments, he had remembered the circumstances of his injury – that he had been pouring out his soul to her, never intending it to come to anything – and then all at once he was _here_ again and she was real and beside him; no longer a vision of hatred and comfort but really there. She had taken him aback; he had not known how to deal with her and, caught so unawares, had found himself responding to her quite naturally. Now, though, having had time to process her presence, he was tormented (as he had feared) by the sudden reality of her, as opposed to the phantom Mary of his war-scarred mind.

As she drew to his side, his eyes flicked upwards to acknowledge her; he made no other sign of it than to slowly close his book and place it on the table in front of him. His hands rested on it a moment, before drawing back to fold in his lap. What was he to say to her? What _could_ he say? And so he waited, taking a breath and raising an eyebrow slightly though his gaze remained fixed on the table.

Mary stood a moment, tapping her hands lightly, before deciding this was as much of an invitation as she was going to get. And so she sat, her breath shallow with nerves at their surroundings and the atmosphere and that unbearable tension that seemed to prickle between them.

"Hello!" Her greeting was overly bright, in compensation for the troubled, wary expression on his face and her own discomfort.

"Hello, Mary."

"How are you today?" The habitual question, normally asked merely as a polite formality, suddenly carried extra weight. He raised his eyes then and they bored coldly into her. Mary paled and her eyes cast down. "I'm sorry, Matthew."

He blinked, frustrated at himself.

"Don't apologise." He did not blame her for not knowing how to address him. The whole thing was utterly mad. "I'm quite alright, relatively speaking."

An uncomfortable silence immediately formed itself. He made no effort to meet her eyes, and consequently Mary didn't quite know where to look, eventually settling her gaze on his shoulder.

"Papa hoped you might join us for dinner this evening." Her hands twisted nervously in her lap.

"Did he."

Mary blinked, frowning gently.

"Yes – well, you are family, Matthew! It... seems really quite ludicrous for you to have been here a week or more and not dined with us!"

"I suppose it is."

Yes, the whole thing was ludicrous. He was family – one of _them_. But he was also there as a recuperating soldier – one of _them; _not quite belonging in either camp. He was _not_ there as family, as a guest, there on a social pleasantry. Yet equally he was _not_ there merely as another nameless soldier – he was all the while uncomfortably aware that he was sitting in the midst of his own inheritance. And it left him in a horrible sort of limbo. Each side tried to drag him in... Dinner with the family, cards and jokes with the men... Neither succeeding. He just didn't _fit_. Though each side tried to accept him, they were incompatible, and he could not accept them. Contemplating this, he continued to glower silently at the table.

The turmoil of his thoughts was evident on his face. Mary watched him, lips parted a fraction, feeling terribly awkward. He would not be pressed, she sensed that. The silence was like a solid wall between them... How had it been so easy last time? How had she so easily stretched her hand out and touched him? It was quite unthinkable now. How had she known what to say to him?

She supposed the topics had been obvious, then... His injury, could she tell his mother, reproving his own self-pitying attitude... Now all that had been covered, what on earth could she say to the man she loved but had not spoken to for three years, who had been through so much as to render him so alien to her? To a man who was so very much a soldier now? What had they possibly in common to talk about? He was obviously deeply troubled – was he so haunted by his experiences?

"Are – are you thinking about... out there?" She tried, hoping to make some connection with him. To show him she cared, that she was not oblivious to it all.

He was and he wasn't, he supposed. That awful damned limbo again. He was not all here, and not all there... He shrugged.

"It's hard not to," he eventually muttered.

Mary's head dipped in a slight nod. The silence fell thick again. Mary bit her lip. There was nothing in his reply, nothing to latch onto and spin into further conversation... It was so difficult! Eventually, her curiosity drove her and she stammered out,

"Is it so very terrible out there as the papers make out?" She paused and took a breath; even to her the question – once heard aloud – seemed insensitive and ridiculous. "Of course it is, I am sure, the evidence would speak for itself, but... No-one ever speaks of it, you see."

Of course they didn't, he thought. They couldn't. His lips pursed into a hard line. It was the impossible question... He refused to feed her the same platitudinous drivel as to his mother, yet he could not, _would_ not speak of the reality of it to her. The dreadful truth wasn't hers to bear. She was looking at him so expectantly... but what could he tell her of it? Nothing! Desperately his mind searched for _some_ way he could respond to her – he wanted to talk to her, to spill his heart out but it was just impossible, and he hated himself for it.

He could do nothing but at last raise his eyes to hers, his gaze cold but troubled, tense, pleading... There was so much behind his eyes that was simply unreadable. All he'd done, all he'd seen, all he wanted to say but couldn't.

"Oh," she breathed quietly. She understood.

Of course it had been a silly thing to ask him.

The silence stretched and stretched, growing quickly intolerable. To drag the stilted conversation (could one really call it a conversation?) on seemed a painful prospect, but... it was not as if she (or indeed he) could simply get up and leave. Mary was still determined to get _something_ from it, from him – some response or reaction beyond his flat answers. His despondency was heartbreaking.

After a minute or so of strained silence, broken only by the soft tap of Matthew's hand on the arm of his chair, Mary thought she had at last hit upon some common ground between them, something lighter to speak of than the state of things 'out there'.

"My mother arranged a dance for all the soldiers here, last month," she said brightly. A forced, cheerful smile was on her lips, not quite reaching her eyes as really, she did not feel like smiling. She felt like holding him, slapping him, shaking him, throwing her arms around him, anything to drag him back to her... But of course that was impossible. This would have to do.

Matthew glanced up.

"Yes, my mother wrote to me of it." His lips twitched. Mary's heart leapt a little. "It sounded a great success."

"It was!" Now, her smile reached her eyes. Carried away by her (really unremarkable) success, she blithely continued. "What a shame you didn't arrive here a little earlier! You could have –"

Her face paled, her smile dropping as her words caught up with her all at once. His expression had hardened and he glared once more at his book. If she had dared to look down to his lap she would've seen his hand there, clenched into a fist of frustration. "I'm sorry, Matthew..."

The only sign of his acknowledgement was a slight twitch of his lip, a clench of his jaw.

Oh, it was intolerable! Mary expelled a sharp sigh, which only served to rile their frustration further. Neither of them were angry with the other – oh, it would be easy enough for them to be – but really they both knew that the fault lay with their own utter inability to find anything of normality to say to each other. Mary's annoyance at herself was so great she felt she might weep. Every time she opened her mouth, the wrong thing came out – oh, she wished she had never bothered! For his part, Matthew appreciated her trying – he knew she really _was_ trying – but it was simply impossible to respond.

The air was thick and stifling. While Matthew continued to stare resolutely down in front of him, Mary nervously cast her eyes around. Suddenly she couldn't breathe, she felt so aware of the unwelcome (to her, at least) presence of others in the room, felt almost ashamed of herself that they were sitting here in public and failing so miserably... All at once it was absolutely unbearable. Maybe… Maybe it was their surroundings; the other men, the chatter, the noise, making it difficult for them… She felt so out of place in here. Yes, maybe… She sucked in a deep breath and lightly slapped her hands onto her knees, assuming a bright, brusque attitude.

"It's terribly stifling in here, Matthew; I don't know how you can bear it for any length of time!" As if he had any real choice, he thought bitterly. Mary offered him one last olive branch. "Would – would you like to take a walk out in the air for a while?"

A walk.

Though a small thread at the back of Matthew's mind knew she didn't mean it cruelly – he knew perfectly well what she meant, and it was a perfectly understandable slip of the tongue – his natural instinct flared to take offense. Everything about his injury and the wheelchair caused offence to him. As soon as the word 'walk' left her lips his eyes snapped coldly to hers, his whole body tensed, his lips pressed thinly together, twitching down at the corners.

Oh, how she wished she had never spoken! She wished she'd never bothered coming to him at all! As his accusing gaze hit her, almost like a physical blow, Mary gasped out a small breath. She stared at him for one moment, filled with despair at his demeanour… and could bear it no longer. She had tried, and tried, and rarely felt so awkward or humiliated in her life to try _so _hard and get so little back… Her chair shunted noisily backwards as she stood up quickly. Biting back the overbearing distress she could feel rising in her throat, her head shook almost imperceptibly at him before she whipped around and fled the room.

Instantly, he wished he could retract his reaction when he saw the hurt in her eyes. His expression softened immediately into apology, but too late to make a difference. His lips parted as she hurriedly left, almost calling out to her…

With a harsh sigh of frustration and effort, Matthew rallied himself and lowered his hands to the wheels of his chair. Grimacing sharply at the pain the sudden movement caused, he gritted his teeth and tried to follow her – his path blocked by men and tables and… How unwieldy the blasted thing was! His breath hissed through his teeth as his scarred arm dragged against the back of a chair.

Finally, he reached the hallway, only to see her back disappearing up the stairs. Where he could not follow. He glanced around him, then,

"Mary!" he called up, his voice tinged with desperation.

It was too late.

Sighing bitterly in frustration, his fist thumped angrily down onto the arm of his wheelchair. He wanted to break it, smash it, rid himself of it. He spun back around, gasping aloud in pain from the effort and, frowning darkly, made his way back to solitude.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, so as always reviews are very gratefully received! Thank you! :)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Firstly, I'd like to again say a HUGE thank you to everyone who's reviewed and enjoyed this story so far – I appreciate it so much. Thank you! Obviously, having started this a long time ago, this scenario is now AU. I hope that won't impact on your enjoyment of it at all, I've decided to just plough on with how I initially envisaged this, so no series 2 spoilers have been accounted for. _

_Secondly, I've just been away for nearly 2 weeks devoid of internet access. I've been able to read but not post, so I just want to say I've hugely enjoyed all the M/M fics popping up - I will be leaving proper reviews once I've recovered from travelling but in the meantime, I've loved them, and I give you this offering (I've been quite prolific writing!)  
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_Finally, just a small reminder that the Highclere Awards are currently at the voting stage – thank you SO much for any nominations of my fics, I was absolutely thrilled and surprised to see some there! It means so much to me! _

_And with that, I leave you to enjoy the chapter – it snowballed somewhat, I must say, but I hope you enjoy it. _

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Frustration. Simmering frustration, remorse, anger, shame, guilt, but most of all frustration, chased around Matthew's mind as he sat in bitter silence, his fist clenched on the table and lips pressed into a hard-set line as he replayed their conversation over and over. He got angrier and angrier as he thought about what she had said, what he had said, what he _hadn't _said, what he _could've _said, what he _should've _said… An embittered soldier he might be, now, but that was no excuse at all to have taken it out on her, not when he… The rest of the family, he cared not what they thought of him or his silence, but Mary…

Gradually, his frustration at himself cooled into disappointment. Oh, she may have said all the wrong things but he had hardly been any better, had hardly given her any opportunity for decent conversation and then had blamed her when she had failed. No, it wasn't fair. None of it was fair, but… His disappointment turned slowly to determination. He had been an unreasonable fool; he must at least attempt to make some amends. No, it was not even that he must; he wanted to. A heavy sigh left his lips and he looked up, scanning the room. He twisted a little, then finally saw a passing nurse and caught her eye, smiling gratefully as she approached.

"Good afternoon, Captain Crawley," she greeted him with an overly sweet smile. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Yes, please. I'm quite well, but – could I trouble you for a pen and paper?"

"Oh," the young nurse seemed slightly surprised by his request, but nevertheless fished immediately in her apron pocket. "Of course, here you are."

"Thank you." A distracted smile passed over Matthew's face. He motioned her to wait for a moment as he bent and hastily scribbled something onto the small sheet. The nurse clasped her hands patiently in front of her. After a moment Matthew folded the paper carefully, then turned to look up at her. "I… don't suppose you'd have an idea where Carson, the butler, might be?"

"I imagine he'd be in his pantry, Sir. He often is, this time of the day."

"Ah. In that case – would it be any trouble for you to please give this to him, and ask him to pass it along to Lady Mary? If you have no more pressing matters to attend to, of course."

"Not at all, Captain Crawley," she smiled sweetly as she took the paper and pen from him. "I'll do as you've asked right away."

"Thank you."

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><p>It took some time for Carson to find Lady Mary. She had not fled to the drawing room, converted from one of the gallery guest bedrooms. He didn't generally like to trouble the ladies in their bedchambers, but, having exhausted all other possibilities, he succumbed to try. The idea of a note from Captain Crawley to Lady Mary was most intriguing and, while it was not in Carson's nature to wonder too deeply about the intimate affairs of the family, he could not help but harbour some small hope that this was a promising sign, even after so much time and upheaval.<p>

He tapped lightly but firmly on her door, and was rewarded by a small, quiet voice admitting him entrance.

Mary looked up as the door swung open a little, and could not help a small sigh of relief as she saw Carson appear, rather than one of her family. She felt humiliated enough following her encounter with Matthew, and the thought of her family knowing of it was unbearable; for pry they surely would.

"Ah, Carson," she braved a smile. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry to trouble you, my Lady," Carson's deep voice rumbled in comforting familiarity as he stepped just inside the door. Mary shook her head dismissively with a smile, bidding him enter further. Carson held his hand out, a small piece of folded paper between his large fingers. "I've been asked to pass this on to you – I understand it is from Captain Crawley."

"Oh, I see." Mary hid her surprise as best she could, as though to receive a note from Matthew was the most commonplace thing in the world. As she reached out to take it, her one allowance to the little jump of her heart was to clutch nervously at her skirt with her free hand.

"Thank you, Carson." She smiled a small, tight smile, the flutter of excitement protesting against the indignation she still felt at Matthew's manner.

With trembling hands, she folded it open. Something about it seemed so personal; to think so was probably silly, she imagined, but still she could not help the small thrill she felt as she thought of him writing it to her… But then, she reminded herself sharply, he had behaved abominably to her.

It read:

_I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry. I would very much like to get outside for a little while – if you still wished to. _

_Matthew_

Mary stared at the note for a moment or two, lips parted slightly, finding herself strangely transfixed by the sight of his handwriting, the thought of his hand guiding the pen, forming the letters, thinking of her as he wrote… The simple beauty of his script and the message, conveying so much in so few words. She almost had to shake herself out of her reverie, fully aware of how ridiculous it was to be so affected by a single line from Matthew.

"Shall I give him any reply, my Lady?" Carson dutifully wondered.

"No – no, thank you, Carson." The only reply might have been that she would be down presently, of course she still wished to – but that small, stubborn part of her mind felt it only fair to make him wait for a response. She didn't want to seem too eager, after all.

"Very well, my Lady."

Carson dipped his head respectfully and left Mary to her thoughts. As soon as the door was closed behind him she stood, paced a while, clutched the note to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. How was she still so affected by him? How, after so long, after the way they had treated each other? Matthew, Matthew… The mere thought of him made her slightly breathless. She wondered – the tone of his note had seemed so sincere, apologetic, earnest – no. She must not let her thoughts stray there, must hope for nothing, there was too much between them now, surely…

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><p>Having donned more appropriate shoes, a hat and a light jacket, she walked gracefully across the hall to the library doorway. It took only a moment for him to look up. Mary smiled at the almost imperceptible change in his demeanour as he noticed her, the way his eyes brightened, his lips twitched into a smile, shoulders straightening as he sat up just a little higher. She raised a lace-gloved hand in greeting, waiting patiently as he made his way across the room to her; frowning a little as she observed his slight struggle to manoeuvre his unwieldy wheelchair through the crowded room.<p>

By the time he reached her, clearly in some pain through the exertion, Mary wondered if perhaps she should have offered to help – it was so difficult! She would never want to patronise him, but to see him struggle… It was impossible. Her hands twisted nervously in front of her, perhaps it had been a mistake; perhaps it had been a mistake to talk to him at all, that first day even…

"Hello again," she smiled tentatively.

"Hello," Matthew did his best to mask his pain. "Thank you," he said, meeting her eyes sincerely, "for giving me another chance. I was dreadfully rude, it wasn't fair."

"Yes, you were!" Mary's eyes twinkled as she rebuked him, unable to disguise the fondness in her voice. Already, it seemed easier, the wall of silence between them broken, each having made a silent promise to themselves that they would not let stubbornness or pride hold their tongues, this time.

"Yes… Sorry. I don't suppose we could start again?"

Mary's smile grew a little wider, hopeful at his attitude. In many ways, it felt as though they really were starting again. Not just this conversation, this day, but… from the beginning. They were both different people now to who they'd been three years ago, and these new people, though connected to those two young fools in love by a spark through time, needed to get to know one another afresh.

"Why ever not?"

She hesitated a moment, smile faltering a fraction as she gestured vaguely towards the back of his chair. "I – don't know if you'd –"

"Yes, please – if you wouldn't mind. Thank you."

Mary nodded briskly at his shy, grateful smile, pursing her lips as she went to stand behind him. She'd never pushed a wheelchair before, of course she hadn't, had never had reason to. It couldn't be so hard. She'd seen other people do it, and it looked perfectly straightforward in any case. Flexing her fingers slightly, she grasped the heavy wooden handle at the back and pushed gently, finding it required considerably more effort than she had anticipated. As she struggled to ease it down the slight step out on to the gravelled driveway – apologising hastily to Matthew as she felt it bump uncomfortably, heard his quiet gasp of pain and his dutiful reassurances – she was desperately grateful that at least, this way, he could not see her face.

Once outside, Mary soon found her stride, becoming quickly used to the weight of it and learning how to guide it. She felt a strange, quiet pride at Matthew's forbearance of it, and an appreciation of the fact that he was putting his trust in her in this manner. It felt strangely intimate… She tried not to dwell on the thought.

After progressing for a while in a comfortable silence, both quietly savouring the silent presence of the other and the welcome freshness of the air, Mary eventually spoke. She felt a strange security in the fact that she could only see the back of his head and shoulders, and just occasionally his cheek if he turned his head enough. It was easier like this.

"I'm sorry, Matthew, for earlier. I know the things I said were insensitive and unthinking. I suppose it isn't any excuse that I find it difficult. What have I to find difficult, compared to –" She trailed off into a humourless chuckle of disappointment at herself. "I simply can't imagine. I'm sorry."

Matthew was silent a moment. His body tensed fractionally, just for a second, and Mary could just see his fingers tighten slightly in silent agitation. She held her breath, hoping desperately that she had not simply caused him more offence… Oh, it was impossible.

"Of course you can't imagine," his voice rang with bitterness. "Nor should you! It's unthinkable, it's unspeakable." He was silent a moment longer, before suddenly seeming to soften, his shoulders relaxing again. "Do not wish that you could imagine, Mary, or understand." Another pause. Mary waited, reluctant to press him now that he was talking more freely, to risk closing him off again. "I would never insult you with anything less than the truth, but the truth is… I… I can't." His voice had dropped, lower, softer.

"Oh, Matthew." There were no other words, nothing at all she could say. It _did _make her uncomfortable to think of, though she could never admit that to him. It _was _unthinkable. She bit her lip gently in thought, then spoke quietly. "I shall also not insult you with anything less than the truth, and say… that I can't deny being glad that you're out of it. Though of course I never would have wished you injured, but –" Oh, it was coming out all wrong again. She sighed in quiet frustration, almost glad that she could not see the look on his face at her unthinking words. "It's comforting to know that you're safe now. I'm sorry if that's selfish of me."

"A little, perhaps." Matthew said it kindly, turning his head as much as he could so that she could just see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Though –" his voice dropped even lower, even softer. "It's nice to know that my safety is cared about." He did not add the thought at the back of his mind, _especially by you_; though he hoped she might guess his meaning.

"Of course it is!"

Mary said this perhaps a little more brusquely than she meant, suddenly afraid that her words had revealed more than she'd intended. Afraid at how open they were being, afraid at what the conversation was leading towards, afraid of her own feelings and the strength of them and of his feelings that she could only guess at.

Silence settled once more, heavy with a mutual awareness of _something_, something that neither was quite ready to admit to yet. It was too soon, their truce too delicate, too tentative.

After a while, Mary broke the silence once more. She longed just to talk with him, about anything, nothing, his voice seeming like the most precious water after three year's drought of it. Hoping it was a safe, neutral topic, she broached something that had been on her mind these last few days.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

Mary hesitated a moment, unwilling to ask such a sensitive question but equally determined to show that she was not afraid of it.

"What will you do when you're fit again? I suppose they'll send you back out, but –"

Matthew was silent a moment, taken aback by the question, that she had thought of it even, that she cared about his future beyond _this_. The unspoken assurance that she believed he _had _a future beyond this, her use of _when_, not _if_, making his heart jump a little. Knowing that she couldn't see, he allowed a tentative smile to play on his lips before he sobered once more to answer.

"I don't know, truthfully," he responded with a gentle shrug. If he was honest, his future looked bleak no matter which way he looked at it. His voice became flat, almost sullen. "Depending on how well the legs heal… Chances are I could get assigned to officer training, remaining in England. Or, if I did get posted back out, I might get stuck on messenger duties, between trench lines and such. At least I'd get a motorcycle for that," he chuckled wryly, then sighed heavily. "Who knows, the whole damned thing could be over before I'm fit. God knows! Either way – however long it takes – I just don't know that my legs could ever be strong enough to get me back to the front line fighting, no matter how much I might –"

He trailed off suddenly, as though he had let slip something shameful, not missing Mary's quiet gasp of realisation – too late, too late he had stopped.

"You… _want_ to be there. Not just _there_, but… Fighting?" She was almost whispering, almost reluctant to say the words aloud. Matthew shifted uncomfortably, so aware of her eyes on the back of his neck.

"Yes," he eventually shrugged, wishing for the first time since they had come out that she could see his face, understand what he meant. He had reached the summit of his silence and tipped over, words and justifications spilling out all at once. "I'm sorry, I know it makes you uncomfortable, but… You see, I have to feel _useful_, Mary, you know me well enough to know that. I have to be _doing_ something, and… Fighting is what I have been doing. For three years. And while I've accepted _this_, for now, the thought of serving again but _not_ being at the front, where I should be, standing by the men I should be standing by and letting them do the fighting I should be doing – I can't, Mary, it wouldn't feel right. It wouldn't feel right to be sitting at the back, hearing it all go on but unable to _do_ anything, and… I know this isn't what you want to hear, Mary, and God you mustn't tell my mother, but – I'm _used_ to it now. With that having been my life for three years, it has come to feel strangely… _right_, even though it isn't; of course it isn't, but… At least I could _do_ something there but now these damned legs –"

All at once his agitated energy seemed to leave him, and his voice died on his lips with a final, bitter thump of his fist to the arm of his hated chair. His chest and shoulders rose and fell heavily with each tormented breath, and his cheeks flamed with shame for how he felt and how he had done exactly what he wished never to do and burdened Mary with the truth of his tortured soul. It was perverse, it was wrong, to finally be safe and away from harm and to want to be _back there_.

Mary had listened with increasing alarm to Matthew's outpouring. Part of her felt as though she should feel angry, angry at his ungratefulness for being safe, angry at his harmful desires, angry at his selfishness to think of what he wanted but to show no care for those who cared for him… But she felt none of this, only a deep-seated sorrow at his despair and frustration, a concern borne of love that the broken soldier in the wheelchair before her wanted nothing more than to serve but was unable to; and that he was hurting in ways that she could not imagine but there was nothing she could do.

She had wondered how it had been so easy before, but now it happened again, even without thought. Words could do nothing, there were no words, yet her whole being cried out to reassure him _somehow_. Instinctively one hand moved from its grip on his wheelchair and grasped his shoulder, a firm, comforting, reassuring squeeze to let him know that she understood, that it was alright, that she was here.

She had forgotten the severity of his injuries beyond his legs.

As she squeezed his shoulder, fingers pressing down on the soft, still scarred flesh between his shoulder and neck that had been torn by a fiercely splintered roof beam, Matthew hissed sharply at the wave of pain that rippled down right through him, his entire body stiffening in protest.

Mary gasped, horrified at her own unthinking action, but as her hand went to jerk instinctively away she found she could not move it. It was already covered by Matthew's own.

"Matthew –"

"It's alright," he assured her through gritted teeth, then, in a more normal voice; "It's alright."

He didn't know, really, why he was still holding her hand. It had been instinct, his sharp reflexes kicking in impulsively. As soon as he'd felt it, even through the pain, he'd reached for her. And now, he just… didn't let go. It seemed so simple. He gripped her fingers for security as he forced his body to relax once more, then, once settled, simply held on. His grip softened and he smiled when her hand stayed there, yielding to his unspoken wish.

Though Mary was finding it difficult to manoeuvre the wheelchair one-handed, she didn't care. Matthew held her hand still, his arm twisted (surely uncomfortably) up to do so. She smiled as their fingers gently entwined, interlinked, playing and stroking over their palms in a strange, wondering dance. It felt so natural, so right… Speech seemed strangely unnecessary. There immediately seemed a silent understanding between them, once that first shock had passed, that this was _alright_, and it drove all dark thoughts away.

Until Matthew realised, startling himself slightly, that he had entirely no right to hold her hand at all. His life may have been effectively on hold for three years, but he sometimes struggled to remember that the same was not true of everyone. It had been three years, surely… What right on earth had he to presume that she was still free? How could he simply expect to pick up where they had left off? Feeling a mild sense of disgust at himself, he reluctantly tugged his hand away to clench twisting in his lap.

Of course, Mary thought sorrowfully, as his fingers slipped through her grasp. Of course he had realised the absurdity of it. It was impossible, impossible to imagine he could've forgotten the hurt she'd caused him. Berating herself for allowing that glimmer of hope to shine too brightly, she renewed her grip on his wheelchair and pushed with a greater determination, until his quiet, gentle voice broke into her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Mary, I never asked. We've spoken too much of myself and my pitiful lot. What – what is your… situation, now?"

Mary expelled a soft sigh as she realised what he was asking her, feeling a sense of almost shame at the irony that he believed his lot in life to be pitiful. When she spoke, it was with a wry smile and forced brightness.

"I'm afraid it is as you see it, Matthew! My – situation – is really dreadfully dull. I have neither the inclination nor the fortitude to do as my sisters have and aid the war effort in any sort of physical way – you know I am a selfish creature. I've tried to do my part in helping my mother arrange charity events, and such; but I'm sorry to say that is it."

Matthew smiled. She had not changed so much, then. That pleased him, somehow.

"You shouldn't underestimate the worth of such ventures, Mary," he said sincerely. "They do more good than you probably know, believe me."

"You shouldn't pander to me, Matthew!" Mary laughed dryly. She was aware, though, that he was trying to make her feel better about it, and that made her heart a little lighter. "I don't deserve it, I'm sure."

She realised then that they had completed a full circuit of the abbey, including the colourful walled garden, quite without realising. Her gaze shifted to the open doorway. It signalled an end to things. They had been talking so easily out here, like this. It seemed to Mary that if they were to return inside this would somehow all be lost. Reluctant to lose it just yet, praying that Matthew wouldn't mind (being unaware that his mind was similarly engaged), she turned instead towards the spreading boughs of the Cedar of Lebanon just beyond the corner of the house, and to the little bench beneath it.

Approaching it, a small smile played across her lips. They seemed to have shared so much here. It was where she came when she missed him, and it seemed fitting now to sit here with him again, with him real, now, beside her, rather than simply a phantom of her memory. Frowning, she stopped in front of it a moment with pursed lips, then broke into action at Matthew's slight, pointed cough. With some effort she turned herself and Matthew's wheelchair around, shuffling awkwardly backwards to bring it into line with the bench, heaving a most unladylike sigh as she finally arranged it (and Matthew) next to it. Then, wiping her hands purposefully, she stepped around in front of him to perch gracefully on the end of the bench, raising her eyebrows triumphantly at him as she did so.

"Thank you," he said quietly, smirking only a little despite his genuine appreciation for her efforts.

For a moment, they simply sat and smiled at each other. It seemed a strange pleasure now, after having just communicated so much without seeing the other's face. Matthew's gaze was so warm, so meaningful and sincere that the intensity of it suddenly made Mary shiver and her eyes dropped to her lap. Her skin was prickling, not uncomfortably, under his eyes, and she laughed nervously to shift the atmosphere.

"As you see then, Matthew, I'm hardly suited to nursing!"

"Nonsense," he chuckled softly. "Well, I consider you'd perhaps make as good a nurse as I do a patient…" Matthew thought he'd let Mary decide for herself whether or not that was a compliment. Really, though, the very fact of her obvious discomfort around soldiers and wounds only made her willingness – desire, even – to be near him all the more meaningful.

Looking at Matthew now, Mary suddenly remembered that she had not fully answered him. She had known, of course, what was behind his query of her 'situation', had understood then why he had suddenly withdrawn his hand. Her pulse raced a little faster at the thought that he wanted to know, and what that meant. She took a breath, steeling herself and fixing her eyes onto the deep blueness of his.

"And in other regards," she breezed, hoping that he would follow; "my situation is, again, as you see. I remain at Downton, under the care of my parents still." Unmarried. She hoped that was obvious. Her smiled brightened and she shrugged noncommittally, suddenly afraid of having been too obvious (though that seemed silly, really, when her intention was to make him see). "After all, what suitors have there been for me, with all Britain's finest having dashed off to France!" As Matthew's eyes widened slightly and his lips parted, Mary felt horribly callous. After everything he'd been through, he didn't deserve her flippancy, not now. She wriggled slightly on the bench, settling a more serious gaze on him. "So no, Matthew. To answer your question – no. I am… quite free." She shook her head gently and smiled, her smile growing wider as she saw comprehension dawn gradually upon him.

"Ah," he breathed, understanding her unspoken invitation. "Mary…" He swallowed heavily, unable to articulate any words beyond her treasured name.

As his hand reached once more for hers, Mary's heart pounded, feeling his fingers close around hers, that gentle pressure that urged her to shuffle that fraction closer to him. Her head was in a spin, so was his; they seemed to be in a bubble of surreality that was beyond all rational thought. That pull, that bond, that spark, as fresh and as strong now as it ever had been. There was no past, there was no future, there was only this beautiful present and him, and her, and the ever closing distance between them, as though it had been closing for weeks, as though fate had planned it when he had first put pen to paper, when the shell had fallen, when the train had brought him here, when she had sought him out, then again, and then now… The distance of miles closed to mere inches, smaller and smaller as their warm breath mingled between them and their eyes drifted closed…

It seemed inevitable, and in many ways it was. It was not a conscious decision; it seemed merely the natural course of things, so perfectly and utterly right as finally… they shared that first, soft, tender kiss. Their lips brushed, so gently, that first touch proving the most perfect fulfilment of every secretly harboured desire of the past three years. Though every pore of Matthew's body ached with the pain of stretching to reach her, he didn't care, being almost glad of the pain as it served as a thrilling reminder that this was not merely a dream of his tortured mind. It was real, she was real, _this _was real. Everything he had seen, everything he'd done, everything he'd suffered, all paled. Every moment of hell had been worth it to return to her and the sweetness of her kiss.

For one beautiful moment, Mary found herself trapped, hypnotised by the utter bliss of Matthew's soft, eager lips melding to hers. He intoxicated her; the heady scent of him, so familiar and comforting, the warmth of his skin…

It encompassed her, and invoked such a flood of memories, so strong, so overpowering… and along with them, _that _memory, the memory of why it had all gone so wrong.

The spell was broken. Without warning Mary stiffened and pulled away, eyes wide with shame. She wanted to cry for having been so stupid. Already he was staring at her, questioning, wondering, apologising… Oh, how could she have been so foolish! To allow herself to care again, to allow him to see it, to allow herself to fall so deeply… She stood up sharply, tugging at her skirt to straighten it.

"Dear me, Matthew, how silly of me – in full view of the driveway, what on earth were we thinking!" The meaningless words tumbled out, breathlessly, not allowing him a chance to explain or justify or apologise for what they had been doing.

"Mary –"

"Come!" She carried blithely on, moving briskly back behind him and resuming her grasp on his wheelchair. "Let's carry on a while, this is proving good exercise I think, and I'm sure they shan't miss you for a while longer. Shall we –"

"Mary!" Matthew shouted this time, his strong, commanding voice causing hers to die in her throat. He softened immediately, already regretting using that tone with her, but… His eyes drifted closed. What a fool he had been to imagine, to hope… He had caught her in a spell, of course it had only taken a moment for her to remember what he was. How could he possibly have thought…

"Mary," his voice was quieter now, trembling slightly. "Don't… Don't torture yourself like this, please. Just take me back inside. I'm sorry – I'm sorry to have taken advantage of your care and –"

"Oh Matthew –" She could already see where his train of thought lay and he was wrong, oh so terribly wrong…

"– and I know that I had no right to presume that –"

"Matthew –"

"Let me finish, Mary, for God's sake! It's… It's perfectly alright. I'd never expect you to – I'd never expect anything _of_ you. Not like this. I know it would be unthinkable, I'm hardly the man I was back then, and even then you didn't… God, Mary, I'm sorry. I understand." No, he could never hold it against her. Why on earth would she want to be with him like this? He was a fool to have clung to the past.

"No, Matthew, you don't." Her voice was low and determined, the words hissed out sharply behind his ear as she continued to drive him away from the house, away from prying eyes and ears.

He had to understand. He had to. This could go on no longer. It would be easy, he couldn't even see her, all she had to do was say the words. Just say them. Words came out of her lips every day, all the time, these were no different. And at least, now, she would be spared the look on his face when she told him. Yes, it was easier this way. She had to take this chance, especially now, could not let him continue to think so terribly of her… Well, it was a different kind of terrible. The truth, she would have to deal with, but she could not bear that he should think she would not love him like this.

When no immediate explanation seemed to be forthcoming, Matthew shifted uncomfortably in rising confusion and irritation.

"Mary, I've said I'm sorry, let's just put it behind us –"

"Not this time, Matthew."

_Say it. Say it._

"What on earth –"

_Say it!_

She stared over his shoulder at the ground ahead of them, unseeing, unfeeling.

"I had a lover."

There. It was out. Mary expelled a deep breath as she felt the weight lift from her shoulders, the heaviness of repressed guilt swiftly replaced by the churning fear of his reaction. She walked faster.

"What?" Matthew spluttered in disbelief, face twisting in incomprehension. His mind raced. "Who… When?" So many emotions flooded through him that he couldn't process them, couldn't think, could hardly even breathe.

"Pamuk. Kemal Pamuk. The Turkish –"

"Yes I know who he was," Matthew bit out, gut clenching, every thread of pain caused by the stiffening of his body dulling in comparison to the growing ache in his heart. "I don't –"

"The night he stayed, he and Evelyn Napier, the night he –" Hands gripping tighter, feet walking faster.

Matthew's tight, agitated voice suddenly cut across her.

"For God's sake, Mary, _stop!_"

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! Apologies for any errors or OOC-ness, I've not had the chance to get this beta-ed so I'm afraid it's all me. As always I'd love to know what you thought, reviews are absolutely lovely and I'd hugely appreciate any feedback!_

_Thank you!_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _The concluding chapter of Broken :)_

_I've been absolutely overwhelmed by response to this fic - thank you so much, I've hugely appreciated people taking the time to review, it's so, so encouraging, honestly. I can't even tell you. Thank you. :)_

_Please allow me a brief reminder that voting for the Highclere Fan Awards still has a couple of days left! Broken has been nominated in a few categories - MASSIVE thanks, again, I'm so incredibly touched. The link is in my profile if you want to have a gander and a vote - there's lots of M/M fic in there!_

_Thanks to both Silverduck and Eolivet for proving excellent sounding boards and polish!_

_And without further ado..._

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Four<span>**

Mary stopped dead, frozen into place by his voice cutting harshly across her words. Her knuckles were white on the chair handle, she couldn't breathe.

For endless moments, they remained motionless, silent. Matthew felt sick. His hands clutched the arms of his wheelchair as his mouth opened and closed, questions spinning round his mind but never quite fully formulating. He felt winded, could feel his chest rise and fall in sharp pain as he tried to steady himself. His eyes fixed, unfocussed, staring at the ground in front of him as he saw far more clearly the image assaulting his mind's eye, of… of… He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping. He wanted to ask, questions, questions, so many questions, but he didn't really want to know, didn't want to think of it, of her, of _them_…

He swallowed. His throat was dry, sore. Threads of thought spiralled through his mind as he struggled to grasp what she was telling him. He thought he had felt pain before, but this…

"Why…" He licked his lips, also painfully dry. His voice rasped out, barely audible. "Why are you telling me this?"

Mary was so relieved that she did not have to face him. That she couldn't see the hurt on his face, the disgust… He must be appalled by her. And she had kissed him _again_. What must he think! Her voice, when she spoke, was deathly quiet, small; almost like a little girl, ashamed of herself, admitting to her folly.

"Because you deserved to know."

"Did I? Why?" His low voice shook. He hadn't _wanted_ to know. Did she not think he'd suffered enough, only to throw this at him? His chest hurt, his gut hurt, his heart hurt. A painful lump was swelling in his throat.

Mary took a deep breath. Though she was reluctant to open these wounds again, it was unavoidable. Regrets filled her afresh as she wrapped her mind around it; how much she had wanted to accept him, how much he had wanted her to and how it was this, _this_ that had stood in her way… There seemed little point being coy about anything now.

"I couldn't ever have married you without you knowing."

Her words hit Matthew like a fresh blow. He almost winced as she said the words, stung all over again by the pain of his proposal and how she had played him so cruelly. He'd suppressed it all, so carefully, buried it and covered it with a different pain. Physical pain had gradually overtaken it, but now…

He made a noise as if to speak, but suddenly, something stopped him. A connection formed in his mind, pieces of memory and information slotted together and his gut churned coldly. He shook his head. Surely…

"That's… why you never…"

"Yes."

With a soft groan, Matthew lowered his head to his hand. She hadn't married him because she'd… she'd… His mind battled against the thought, not wanting to consider it fully. There was something else in her words though, and he latched onto it desperately.

"But you – wanted to?"

"Yes. I wanted to so very much… but I was too afraid. I'm sorry."

"I see," Matthew whispered. His head was whirling as the pieces of the broken jigsaw of their relationship fell into place. She'd wanted to. Wanted to marry him. Wanted to be honest with him. Cared _enough_ to be honest with him. She _had_ been sure… They could have… His heart panged sharply with the thought that all this time, these three bloody long, hard years, they might have… might have _loved_ each other. It hurt, almost physically hurt, the dawning realisation that it so easily could have been so different, if only he'd known…

In the back of his mind, somewhere, he was angry at her for it. For not having the courage to tell him then, for not having enough faith in his love… But, he realised, all that was so long ago. It seemed like a different lifetime. A different existence. Different people. Three years of war had changed them both, and it suddenly seemed almost absurd to be bitter over a situation so far removed from where they now were. She was bringing up all the pain afresh. It seemed mad. Unless…

"And –" he swallowed again, staring at his feet, bracing himself against her answer. He could be wrong, so wrong, but what if he wasn't… "Why are you telling me _now_?"

Mary had not expected that. In fact, she frowned, puzzled, his entire response was quite unexpected. His quiet questions, searching her, testing her, seemed almost more difficult to face than his anger might have been, or his disappointment, or disgust. That, she would have deserved, but this… Not only that, but his question forced her to consider and express what had been pressing at the back of her mind ever since he'd come back.

The wait for her response hung heavily between them. The only thing to break the silence was the gentle rasp of Matthew's breath as he waited, every muscle tensed. Somehow, this silence, this wait, seemed to hold more dread than the terrible unending moments before combat. His very future seemed to hang on a knife-edge that would be fixed by her words.

Finally, Mary pressed her eyes gently shut, expelled a soft breath and told him. She had said she would not insult him with anything less than the truth. At last she had given him the truth, and there seemed little point now in holding anything else back. He _still_ deserved to know. Because…

"Because I couldn't allow anything further to happen between us now, with you still in ignorance of my character."

Matthew pursed his lips. Mary waited, her breath held. The silent admission that something further _could_ happen between them seemed to dance tauntingly in the air. She was amazed at how easily the words were coming; it was oddly comforting to speak them to the back of his head.

"Did you love him?"

Mary looked almost aghast. "Matthew, I barely knew the man an evening, how –"

"Did you love him?" Firmer, this time.

"No." She shook her head decisively, even though he could not see.

The ghost of a smile flitted over Matthew's face. The details, the circumstances, mattered not to him. She had not loved the man… Her emphatic denial and the resigned sadness behind her admission was enough to tell him that she considered it a mistake. And how could he hold that against her? A mistake (though a terrible one) that was committed… five years ago, he realised, before he'd held any claim over her. True, it had caused him to lose her then, and the very thought made him ache, but… That ache was for a time, a relationship, a dream, that was long past. He loved her still _now_; indeed, that seemed the only thing he had been sure of for months now. War, his blasted injury, had taught him that life was fragile, hanging only on a thread. What did anything of those years past matter now, when he might not live to see another? What reflection could it have on this new relationship between these two new people? Matthew frowned. He was getting ahead of himself. If only…

"And…" His voice trembled softly as he threw caution to the wind – it seemed senseless, now, after what they had already said and done. Mary had to strain her ears to hear him. "Did you – do you – love me?"

One question. One simple question that set all other concerns aside.

"Yes."

Matthew released the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding in a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. Nothing else mattered, he realised now. Nothing else at all. The ache in his heart dulled, slightly.

Mary waited, breathless, waited for any sign from him. She could tell nothing, nothing at all from the back of his head and shoulders. She gazed at what she could see, memorising the way the sun made his hair glint even more golden than normal, the strong set of his shoulders, the softness of the skin on his neck, because she wasn't sure she'd be able to face him after this conversation. After what she had admitted. Regardless of his reaction now, though, the sheer relief of the weight having lifted from her shoulders was overwhelming.

His hand suddenly waved out to the side of him.

"Come here," he beckoned forwards, softly.

Gingerly, Mary let go of the wheelchair (it took some effort to prise her fingers from their grasp), and stepped around in front of him. It was only after a moment or two that she dared raise her eyes to meet his. To her vast surprise, he was smiling. A broad, genuine smile; not that tight, uncomfortable smile that she'd seen earlier that day. Her lips parted in surprise.

As he saw her, Matthew's heart felt as though it could burst. The strange intimacy of sightless conversation had been a safety net for both of them, but to see the effect of it on her precious face… He felt as though a veil had been lifted between them. The veil of time, of pain, of distance – and it just left them, face to face, with nothing else between them.

He took her hands.

"Mary…"

She crouched in front of him, resting their joined hands lightly on his knees. Her face was still a tight, cautious mask, though she tried a tentative smile.

"Mary." His voice was unbelievably tender. He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek, so softly, as though he could brush away the turmoil there. "You… think you've been spoiled?"

"Haven't I?" She exclaimed incredulously. She wanted to weep at how _good_ he was. She had ruined herself, ruined their chance! Of course she was spoiled. She was damaged, tainted, broken.

Matthew shook his head slowly. "And what am I, then?" He smiled sadly, gesturing at himself.

"But, Matthew, you're –"

"I'm what? Do you imagine my scars lie only on my body?"

"Oh," she breathed.

"I think everyone has chapters they're not proud of," he said quietly, his voice and expression laden with meaning.

"I suppose." Mary bit her lip, gazing almost tearfully up at him. "But –" Her guilt had weighed on her for so long, it couldn't possibly be this easy, she didn't deserve it!

"Mary." His fingers caressed her cheek, his thumb grazed her lips. "Don't… It was so long ago. Everything's changed." He sighed, smiling gently. "Thank you."

His meaning was clear. He was right, Mary supposed; so much had happened since those fateful events that it hardly seemed to matter anymore… But it _had_ mattered. And he knew that. And now it was out, it _didn't_ matter anymore... Not now. She grasped his arm carefully, running her hand up to his on her face.

A shadow suddenly passed over Matthew's face; his expression turned downcast. He had been so dumbfounded by the shock of Mary's secret that it had driven his own pitiful circumstance from his mind.

A frown flickered over Mary's face. "What is it?"

"It's only…" He sighed. "A bruised character, once forgiven, might be put out of mind with relative ease. Whereas I –"

"Matthew!" Mary gasped as she followed his eyes to down to his legs. "Good God, Matthew, do you think I expect your forgiveness at all? Or expect you ever to be able to put my indiscretion out of mind? To even compare the two…" She looked sorrowfully up at him, with a slight shake of her head. "Do you truly think that your injury makes the slightest jot of difference to my regard for you? An injury inflicted on you by another that you must bear the consequences of?" She frowned, trying not to think of the infliction of her own injury by another. That could come later, but not now.

She smiled, faintly, eyes twinkling with gentle pride. "And Matthew, you have borne them admirably – I believe it has only increased my regard for you!"

Matthew's lips twitched gratefully. He was overwhelmed by her estimation of him, and filled with a fresh, tentative hope. They were both injured, he realised, but somehow… they could help each other bear it.

"I… don't suppose we can start again?"He finally said softly, echoing his earlier words.

At last, Mary smiled; a glorious, beautiful smile. "Why ever not?"

She squeezed his hand and resumed her position once more behind his wheelchair. As soon as she was out of his sightline, Matthew turned his head back gingerly.

"Mary –"

"Yes?" She paused with one hand resting lightly on the handle. Matthew's voice was deep, sincere, beautiful.

"You know that I –"

"Yes. I know."

It was enough, for now. Standing behind him, Mary touched his shoulder again, though far more gently, this time, and ran her hand lightly down across his chest as she bent and kissed the top of his head. Her eyes closed and she sighed happily. She kissed his cheek, kissed lightly along his scar; his hand clutched her arm to him.

Reluctantly, Mary straightened. Once she had (with some difficulty) turned Matthew's wheelchair around to proceed back towards the house, she allowed one hand to fall softly on his shoulder in an unspoken invitation. He reached up and took it, squeezing gently and tugging it a little off his shoulder so he could turn his head and kiss each finger, kiss her palm, kiss the back of her hand.

Elation swept through Mary. He was here. It was behind them. She had found him again. Her mother had always said that things looked better in the morning. Reflecting on the thought that time could heal all wounds, she wondered if that might be true – in some small way, at least.

They both were broken, but, with time and care, the wounds would heal… even if the scars remained.

**Fin**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading, this chapter and the whole fic.  
><em>

_As a note (disclaimer, of sorts?) - I was very aware, writing this, of NOT wanting to simply repeat the M/M Pamuk conversation I wrote in Resolution. Bearing in mind also the effect of war changing perspectives (need I remind you of the teaser line, "war has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter, and the things that don't..."?), I hope you'll have found this a believable take on Matthew's reaction._

_Reviews are always hugely appreciated - it's so lovely to get your thoughts! Thank you!  
><em>


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